Viper - Michael Morley [53]
Jack stopped him. His mind was hopelessly trying to make connections. It felt like wiring a plug in the dark. ‘That’s ringing all kinds of bells. The Slasher is the Coral Watts case, isn’t it?’
‘The one and only,’ said Howie. ‘Coral Eugene Sonofabitch Watts. Killed several young women. Drowned them, strangled them, cut their throats or knifed them dozens of times. And the bastard claimed to have murdered dozens more that the cops never found.’
Jack finally made his mental connection. ‘Watts buried his victims and that’s why they weren’t found for years and he was able to carry on killing. On top of that, he used to ceremonially burn trophies he took from the bodies.’
‘Yep, so you have some clear comparisons there – the missing women, the burials, even some burning.’
‘Thanks, buddy, I’d just about joined those dots on my own.’
‘Well done. There’s another thing,’ he said, his voice growing flat and worried. ‘Turns out that Creed has had and still does have access to FBI files.’
‘Say again.’ Jack hoped he’d misheard.
‘One of the Internet cookies I traced was Creed’s log-in to the FBI’s Virtual Academy. Seems that he’s been enlisted as a student of the VA.’
The Virtual Academy was a global distance-learning site, jammed with information and famed for helping to hone profiling techniques. Access was restricted to the law enforcement world.
The breach rendered Jack silent.
‘You hear me?’ asked Howie.
‘I hear you. Only now the dots make a picture that I really don’t like. The thought of a possible offender being deep inside our corridors of knowledge fills me with dread. We need to find out everything this sonofabitch has read or written, and whoever he’s spoken to. And we need to do it fast.’
42
Campeggio Castellani, Pompeii
For a split second Franco Castellani couldn’t work out the cause of the sharp slapping sensation inside his head. Still slow and wasted from the heroin, he gradually realized that the pain was coming from his grandfather’s hand rather than from the after-effects of the drug.
‘What in God’s name do you think you are doing? You crazy crazy, child!’
Franco covered his face. Not that the slaps carried much weight. Rosa. His fingers still smelled of Rosa.
‘Sit up! Sit up and tell me that this is not what I think it is. Not what I know it is.’
Antonio backed off to give him room. Franco forced his eyes open wide enough to see the syringe and the empty plastic packet being dangled above him. The air was hot and stale. Flies buzzed around a dirty plate near his cousin’s bed. Franco finally commanded his legs to move and raised himself into a sitting position. The door jerked open and blinding white light flooded in. Paolo stopped in his tracks, fresh bread and milk in a carrier bag swinging in his hand.
‘Get out!’ shouted Antonio.
Paolo turned on his heels.
Franco noticed his cousin had been dressed in work clothes. He guessed he’d overslept and his grandfather had come looking for him. ‘It’s heroin,’ he admitted, shielding the light from his face. ‘If you were me, you’d be taking it too. Lots of it.’
His grandfather slapped him again. ‘Don’t give me this self-pity shit. Be proud of who you are, what you are.’
Franco put his hands back to his face; this time the blows had stung. ‘What I am? I’m the living dead, that’s what I am.’
Antonio hit him again. Slapped hard at the boy’s stubborn head. Tried to knock some sense into his thick skull. Then he grabbed him. Shook him and held him. And felt his own tears stream down his face. ‘Franco, you shame yourself with this stuff. You disrespect yourself and your family. We are not junkies. We are not cowards. Whatever life throws at us we raise our heads above it and show the world we are proud to be ourselves.’
‘But I’m not, Grandpa. I’m not proud.’ His voice was shaky and his eyes watery. ‘I hate myself and everything that’s happening to me.’
Antonio held